Adam's Daughter (17 page)

The next day, President Roosevelt declared war on Japan. Thousands of San Franciscans flocked to Ocean Beach to stand on the dunes,
searching the western sky for enemy planes. Suddenly, everything was in turmoil as fear gripped the city. Adam spent long days and nights at the newspaper, working with his editors to mobilize the staff.

A week later, Lilith called Adam and asked to see him. Adam was surprised; he had not talked to Lilith in at least a year. The last he had heard of her was that she was involved with a
European count. She said she had to see Adam immediately, something to do with Ian. She came to the office that afternoon.

“I need a favor from you, Adam,” she said, taking a seat across from his desk
. “I know you don’t care about me, but I’m hoping you’ll help me on this.”

“What is it, Lilith
? Do you need more money?”

She laughed. “Yes, I do. Not that you’d give it to me. Though you certainly can afford it, thanks to that woman.”

He let the remark pass.

“I need you to take Ian,” Lilith said.

“What?”

“Just for a while. I have to go to New York. Antoine has family in Italy and he’s going to try to get them out.”

Adam looked at her. “You want to run off with your boyfriend and Ian is in the way, right?”

Lilith stood up and began to put her gloves on. “Spare me the lecture. Do you want him or not?”

Adam stared at her for a moment. “I’ll take him.”

A chauffeur deposited Ian and his luggage in the foyer of the house on Divisadero late that night. The boy, now twelve and already tall,
tried hard to look nonchalant. Adam hugged him, but the boy pulled away. “I’m too old for that. Father,” he said.

Ian allowed Elizabeth to lead him up to his new room. “Give him time,” she told Adam later. “He’s probably feeling a little abandoned right now.”

Abandoned? Adam tried to draw on his own childhood memories. Abandoned...hadn’t he felt the same thing when his parents were killed? No, it wasn’t the same, he decided. Ian had a father, someone who loved him. Adam just had to find a way to prove it. Events had conspired to bring Ian back to him, and Adam thought that he had been given a second chance.

Christmas was a strange affair. Adam watched as Elizabeth opened gifts for baby Kellen. But Ian sat quietly, surrounded by the expensive gifts that Adam had bought on one night’s flurry of shopping. At one point Ian wandered over to the mantel and began to stroke a bronze of a horse.

“Do you like horses?” Adam asked.

“Yes. They are powerful and beautiful,” Ian
said.

“Would you like to have one?”

Ian looked up at Adam and for a moment his eyes came alive. “A real horse?”

“Yes, a real one.”

Later, when he was alone with Elizabeth, Adam told her of his plan to get Ian a horse. “You’re spoiling him, Adam,” Elizabeth said, nestling into his arms. They were sitting in the library before the fire.

“He needs spoiling now. I want to give him the best.”

“I think he needs you, not more gifts,” Elizabeth said gently.

“I’ve been with him as much as possible,” Adam said
. “You know how busy I’ve been lately. It’s all I can do to find time for you.” He kissed her. “Merry Christmas, by the way,” he said softly.

“You’ve done it again. You’ve forgotten my gift.”

“Wrong. I wanted to wait until we were alone.” He got up and retrieved a package from under the tree and placed it in her lap. She smiled and eagerly tore off the paper. It was an old cigar box. She looked at him, puzzled then opened the lid. A photograph sat on a pile of tissue paper. “Why, Adam, this is you,” she said. “When was it taken?”

“About fifteen years ago. The day I came to San Francisco. A friend of mine was seeing me off on the ferry. He took it and sent it to me.”

“You look so young and serious,” she said. “But why are you giving it to me?”

“Because that day, I thought my life was beginning. I was wrong. It began when I met you.”

She kissed him. “You are such a romantic at heart, you know. You try so hard not to let anyone see it, but you are.”

“Maybe you
are the only one who can see it.” She started to set the box aside. “Look under the tissue,” Adam said.

She pulled the paper aside and her eyes widened. Nestled in the box were three uncut stones, one red, one green, one clear.

“Adam —-”

“The ruby is for San Diego. The emerald is for Seattle. The diamond is for San Francisco.” He watched her face. “You’re
the one who called them my jewels.”

“They’re beautiful,” she said. “But how —-”

“Now, a lady should never ask how much something costs, or where the man got the money. She should just graciously accept the gift and the love that goes with it.”

Her eyes filled with tears and she put her arms around his neck. “You sold the last of your land in Napa, didn’t you,” she said.

“All but a hundred acres. I would have sold it, too, but
I couldn’t bring myself to kick out the old fellow who’s still living in the house there.”

“That doesn’t sound like a ruthless businessman speaking.” She picked up the old photograph. “Where is this solemn fellow, the one who was so ready to set the world on fire, damned be
anyone who gets in his way?”

Adam knew she was teasing, but he felt vulnerable just the same. She was the only person who could make him feel that way.

“He’s still here, inside me, somewhere,” he said.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Like the gold rush had done a century before, the war turned life in the Bay Area upside down. Overnight, San Francisco was transformed into a giant quasi-military camp. Tens of thousands of servicemen took up residence in makeshift camps. Thousands more, en route to the Pacific, filled the bars, raced up and down the hills in Jeeps, and lingered on Eddy Street, sizing up the “sea gulls,” as the prostitutes were called.

Some of the changes were small. Pictures of FDR and General Dwight D. Eisenhower were tacked up above diner grills. Men patrolled the streets in Civil Defense uniforms. Blackout exercises began. And in the lounge on the top of the Mark Hopkins, the bartenders gave away drinks to departing service
men who sat in the “weeper’s corner” comforting girlfriends and wives.

But most of the changes were monumental.
Hundreds of thousands of workers jammed the city, and in the East Bay shipyards churned out Liberty ships. The population surge overwhelmed schools, hospitals, and jails and everything was pushed to the limit as the rest of the world elbowed its way into the city’s comfortable sphere of self-possession.

For Adam, the war brought the same boom and bane. Sales of the
Times
soared, but like everyone Adam was plagued by labor shortages. When some of his men left to join the war effort, Adam was finally forced to hire women. Adam watched their work warily; he just could not get used to the idea of “paper dolls” in his own newsroom.

He was still shuttling between the flourishing San Diego and Seattle papers. His main connection to the
Times
was the editorial he still wrote every day. The editorials had always been his special love, and he used them to speak out against the injustices of the war.

But on
e event finally challenged his beliefs. Early in 1942, Roosevelt ordered all Japanese living on the West Coast to be transported to internment camps. Adam wrote an editorial saying San Francisco was a potential enemy target and that relocation was an unfortunate but necessary move.

The day after it was printed, the Japanese man who worked as Elizabeth’s gardener resigned. He and his wife and daughter had been ordered to go to the temporary camp at the Tanforan Race Track in San Bruno, just south of the city.

That night, at the dinner table, Ian sat in stony silence. Adam and Elizabeth watched him carefully.

“Ian, you should eat something,” Elizabeth said gently. “You haven’t eaten all day.”

“I’m not hungry,” Ian said.

“Ian, I know you’re upset,”
Adam said. “I know that Chimmoko was your friend.”

Ian looked up
suddenly. “Where did she go?”

Adam
hesitated. “She went with her family to a camp. It was for her own protection. We are at war with Japan, and many people are afraid of the Japanese right now. She’ll be safe there.”

Ian threw his napkin on the table and ran from the table. Adam heard his bedroom door slam shut.

“You should go to him,” Elizabeth said.

“There’s nothing more I can tell him,” Adam said. “Besides, you know how moody he is, Elizabeth. He’ll be fine in the morning. I’ll talk to him when I get home tomorrow.”

The next day, Elizabeth called Adam at work and told him to hurry home. Adam rushed home and found Ian huddled on his bed. He was filthy and had been crying.

“I can’t get anything out of him,” Elizabeth whispered to Adam. “He ran away this morning and was gone all day.”

Adam sat down on the bed. “What happened?” he asked.

“I went there,”
Ian said.

“Where?”

“The camp.”

“You went to the internment camp?
How did you get there? How did you find it?”

“I asked people. I took a bus.”

“Why, Ian? Why did you go down there?”

“To find Chimmoko.”

“Ian, son —-”

“You lied to me,” Ian said. “You said she would be safe there.” His eyes brimmed with tears. “I read what you wrote in the newspaper. You said the camp was something good.”

“Ian, please —-”

“You lied! It’s not good! There’s a big fence. She’s in a stall with her mother and father. A horse’s stall. That’s where they have to live. With dirty hay and shit!”

“Ian --” Adam reached for him, but Ian recoiled.

“You lied! You lied! Leave me alone! Leave me alone!” He huddled in the co
rner, crying.

Adam stared at him
then slowly, he stood up. With one last  glance at Elizabeth, he walked out of the room.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

The war dragged on, and Adam charted its progress on the pages of his newspapers, as reported by his now far-flung staff of reporters. His newspapers continued to prosper, although shortages and labor problems mounted. By 1943, everything was scarce -- gasoline, coffee, even shoes. Adam didn’t care about rationing; he and Elizabeth had everything they needed. But he knew there was one thing he could not live without -— paper.

Supplies were running low,
and he knew that soon newsprint would be like gold. He asked Elizabeth to buy a Canadian paper mill. A year later, when the blitzkrieg in Norway cut off the Scandinavian supply, newsprint’s price rose to fifty dollars a ton, and newspapers were crippled by shortages. Many papers resorted to rationing, even freezing circulation.

Because of Adam’s foresight
, the
Times
was spared. He watched as the rival
San Francisco Journal
shrank in size. Finally, one afternoon the
Journal
’s publisher Howard Capen appeared in his office. He got right to the point. He wanted to buy newsprint at whatever price Adam wanted. Adam refused.